hell of a season.

Winter requires a certain bravery.  It requires ammunition.

Summer, on the other hand, flurries by without effort, without a fuss.  The music I tend to gravitate toward during that season is light.  Pastel.  Carefree.  Like elegant cursive letters sprawled out over paper.

In the Winter, this simply will not do.  I need substance.  I need a song to set off my mental fuses, to reach out and pull me from the haze.  Drum clarity into my brain.  Pound out the temptation to fall into hibernation.  I need something that drives me forward.  That gives me a reason to even stir instead of settle like debris in still water.

kind of a miracle.

The truth is, I only feel like my real and honest self about two and a half out of seven days a week.  I'm too embarrassed to even attempt simple math in front of anyone else.  Sometimes I find myself paralyzed with this fear that my life will never consist of anything other than working full-time, even though I know that's silly.  At least, I hope it is. 
And I would have to say that, yes, I am in love.  Not the ABC prime-time kind of love.  Where I'm, you know, still waiting to see if he'll ever leave his wife for me.  Or sitting by a hospital bed surrounded by medical machinery, tears cascading down my face with mascara that never runs, holding one of his immobile hands in both of mine, just begging him to wake up from a coma.

No.  It's the boring, in-for-the-long-haul, fully-dedicated-to-one-another's-happiness kind of love.  Where we're already married.  Where we go to bed at 9pm if we want to.  Where we talk about water bills sometimes. The kind where I melt whenever he mows the lawn or loosens his tie or tells me that he cleaned out the kitty litter so I don't have to.  Where he fully supports the fact that I'll most likely never have hair past my shoulders.  Where he says he is completely fine spending our Saturday afternoon lunch date listening to me go into a full synopsis of my most current read.

I guess it doesn't make for the best writing.  Not the kind that affairs and comas and love triangles do.  I guess that's why the majority of stories are told prior to the happily ever after, not afterward.

But I am in love.  And isn't that kind of a miracle, in and of itself?

peaches and personal revelation

I first learned that God listened to my prayers through a hamster.  His name was Peaches.  My family named him this because he had orange fur, and his little bum looked just like a peach.  It was unanimous.

Peaches died a tragic death by marshmallow peep.  He found his way into my brother's Easter basket and thought he'd try eating one which expanded in his body and asphyxiated him until dead.  Like I said, tragic.  I've never really understood Peeps.  White, fluffy sugar covered in more sugar, just colorful this time, shaped like bunnies and baby birds.  Anyway, I digress. 

Before his passing, Peaches and I were thick as thieves.  The only trouble was, hamsters are small.  At the tender age of 7, I wasn't very skilled at keeping track of the day of the week, let alone small items such as hamsters.  I used to place him in random spots, like my sock drawer, and forget about him.  A few hours later I would realize -- the hamster was lost. 

This was typically followed by complete chaos, caused by my entire family's efforts to find our lost Peaches.  When I had exhausted every place I could think of, and resorted to shameless tears, I had a thought.  If anybody knew where my hamster was, it was God.  I mean, he knew lots of things, right?

I said a prayer, Please help us find Peaches.  Every time, without fail, Peaches turned up in a matter of minutes.  And that's how I knew.  God knew me.  He wanted to help.  He was generally easy to get a hold of.  He listened, he answered, he cared.

Last night, I felt a bit nostalgic.  The cat made a mad dash out the front door as we opened it for some visitors. She ran and ran, father than we had ever seen her run, through a neighbor's yard and into the dark of the night.  We knew we wouldn't be able to sleep until she was home safe, especially with a thunderstorm rolling in.  We had to find her, and quick.  And might I add how happy I was at this point that she was a cat and not a hamster.

After about an hour of walking around with flashlights, jingling bells, shaking bags of food, calling out, "Kitty kiiittyyy!" and a bunch of other things that I'm sure were sincerely concerning to our neighbors, we were at a loss.  Drew stood on the back porch, slumped his shoulders, said, "What do we do?"

"I don't know..."

Wait, yes I do.  "How about we say a prayer."

He nodded.  We walked to our room, knelt down by our bed, and I said a simple prayer.  Please help us to find our cute little kitty.  We like her.  

After that, we decided to go sit out on the porch, wait for her to come to us.  I went to grab my book, and heard Drew say, "Hey, there she is!"  He was holding her when he walked inside and locked the front door, said, "Well that was fast."

doers.

"Well, are you a dreamer or a doer?"

That was your question.  And I didn't want to answer, because I think that was the moment I realized just how ill-suited we were.  I knew an honest answer would inevitably tear you and I into the separate walks of life we were headed toward.

Me?  Not a doer.  More like, easily satisfied - to a fault.  And I wish someone would have revealed that to me, at some point.  At some point before I woke up to the terrible realization of what I had missed.  I wish they would have grabbed both of my shoulders in their hands and shaken that satisfaction right out of me.

Not that I can justifiably blame anybody else.  Even though I'd like to.

I never used to think I was a perfectionist.  That never came up on the list of "Words I Would Use to Describe Myself."  Not even once.  But I'm coming to figure out that I am, although a peculiar breed.

When I consider doing, my mind immediately informs me of all the better doings other people have already done.  And I think to myself, well, if I'm not the best, if it won't be perfect, if I can't make it just-so, then what is the point?

And that is the thought that has kept from from doing, that, as it seems, will be keeping me from it my whole existence.

I'd like to...

-Turn off the TV by 10:30pm each night to read

-Use people's names when I talk with them

-Wake up earlier for scripture study

-Try more DIY or art projects

-Print pictures and frame them

-Write more songs with Drew

-Give more compliments, free of charge

-Keep my car and home organized and clean

-Eat more vegetables

-Buy a film camera, and learn how to use it

-Talk on the phone with one of my parents at least once a week

-Go on a date with one of my friends approximately twice a month

-Journal, with an actual pen on actual paper

-Learn about photography

-Keep a planner

-Talk to myself with kinder language (because what we believe about ourselves generally comes true)

-Self-research things I find interesting

-Watch more TED talks

-Go on more walks

-Do a few simple work outs a week

-Pick up my cello or guitar a few times a week

-Re-vamp my wardrobe

-Make more to-do lists with specific goals, rather than vague wishes

-Buy a cute house like this:

And move in today.

At least that last one I can say is a "check!"

my brain, lately

-I'm in a pr-etty intense peanut butter phase right now.  I put it on an apple every morning.  I regularly eat peanut butter toast.  You know, where you spread it on that warm bread and it melts into heavenly goodness?  And sometimes I just eat it plain off of a spoon.  But only natural peanut butter.  Not that fake, plastic crap.  And I'm not saying that because I'm all healthy and pretentious.  I like natural peanut butter better because it...actually tastes like peanuts?  Which I thought was the whole point of peanut butter.


-Old friends.  Aren't they weird?  Some of them you can go years without seeing, and it feels as if they never left, while you simultaneously wonder how you ever made it through a day without them.  Other times, it's plain uncomfortable.  You're just standing there, staring at each other, waiting for the conversation to flow the way it used to.  And you're thinking, what happened here?  We used to be tight!   Back when you knew all of their secrets and favorite songs.  But now something is off.  And you'll probably never figure out what.


-I have this tendency, to get lost in beautiful things.  Which are far more common than people tend to realize.  Especially when you consider all of the insanely beautiful things that the sky does, every single day.  Really.  I am fully convinced that paying attention to the sky on a regular basis makes an individual's life at least 8% more enjoyable.  Lately I've been particularly taken with those few moments between sunset and night.  Where the stars are barely coming out, but there is still the tiniest bit of light coming from the western horizon.  Magic.


-Do you ever forget your age?  When someone asks you for it, you get all mixed up between last year's and this year's and wonder if you're even a person at all.  If it weren't for math I probably would have lost track years ago.  I hate that I just found a practical reason for math to exist.


-There is this line from a Conor Oberst song: "I watch you braid your hair; you're from another time, when the earth wasn't so angry, and God was on our side."  I've always wanted to be that girl.  You know?  The soft, gentle, sweet-natured lady with the loose curls and the classy wardrobe.  Who is typically found in a skirt somewhere, picking flowers and singing.  But I'm much too distracted.  With short, edgy hair cuts.  Busy patterns.  Jeans.  And the fact that part of me also wants to look like Maja Ivarsson.  Contradiction, contradiction.

-I'm definitely PMSing today.  Definitely.  And I know this because every single person I've had to call for work today has hurt my feelings.  Or, I guess I should say, I've gotten my feelings hurt by them.  All I can think of is that line from You've Got Mail.  "It's not personal - it's business."  But I can't fathom that right now.  Because right now, the perfect storm is brewing inside of my body and everything, and I do mean everything, seems as personal as the most awkward medical exam.

.

-It has come to my attention that one of the only things that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought that I'll be able to have a Diet Dew within a few short hours. 

-It has also come to my attention that the above statement may be a bit unhealthy.  Mentally and physically. 

-Conversely, I haven't been late to work since I started this luring myself out of bed with thoughts of Diet Dew habit. 

-All I'm saying is we humans do what we have to do.  It isn't always pretty. 

-I'm not really sure if the top I'm wearing today was meant to be a shirt or a dress.  Ever have that?

-There seem to be a number of women who would consider it a dress, at least from what I've seen at nightclubs (not that I know what those are, mom). 

-I personally don't consider any top that you can't comfortably bend over in without biker shorts underneath it to be a "dress."  But what do I know.  I'm wearing what I've decided to call a shress with cutoff jeans right now. 

-It sort of looks like I didn't have time to fully change after ballet practice? 

-Nope, it isn't cute.

-Also, I never took ballet, but I should have because my feet have freakishly high arches.

-Instead, I did marching band.  Which I was clearly too preoccupied with to develop any sense of style at such a crucial style-forming time in my life. 

-I mean, a shress?  Really?

-These listing has become redundant and unnecessary.  And so has this post.

I used to be so proud of my maturity.  When anyone mentioned that I seemed older than I was, or that I had grown up fast, I was flattered.  There was nothing I liked more at 16 than to be mistaken for a 20-year-old.  

And it's true, I did grow up fast.  Emotionally, anyway. I didn't have much of a choice in the matter. 

The thing is, I think I'm trying to make up for that now.  It's pretty bad timing.

I had Thrice in my head this morning.  Sometimes that happens.  I wake up with a song in my head and have no idea where it came from.

I like to think that my dreams invite all of my favorite musicians to come play for me in my sleep.  And I wake up with only a sleepy recollection.

Getting out of bed this week has been nearly impossible.  I feel this unshakable urge to hide.

But that isn't an option because I'm a grown up.  Not sure exactly when that happened, but how do I make it stop? 

I saw a lady dance yesterday
She was easily swayed
I cannot be tossed and turned 

in this way
I'm not your tiny dancer

-LM

I only look good on accident.  I'm only funny in front of people I don't know.  I only create something original when I have no concern for doing anything of the sort.

really though.

If we're being honest, and I've decided to be, I actually do enjoy talking, sometimes.  It does seem as though I can last much longer without social interaction than most people, but that doesn't mean I'm happy when I go without it completely. 

In a therapy session a few weeks ago, I discovered that I have a pretty substantial need for approval.  It's very rarely not on my mind.  My main strategy for avoiding not being approved of is simply rejecting approval altogether.  I act as if I could care less about what anyone thinks of me; I shut down.

This is a sort of survival tactic that I developed as a child, and I just haven't managed yet to replace it with something better, healthier.  Maybe it protects me from rejection, but it also blocks me from potential acceptance, from relating to or helping someone else.  It causes me to go days and weeks without sharing myself.  I almost forget how good it feels to have a conversation, to laugh at a joke or, heaven forbid, make one. 

I'm not saying that I will ever enjoy small talk.  Especially the kind that happens in a break room with an almost-stranger while I'm trying to read.  I doubt I will ever find such things appealing.  But I am saying that I think I need to find a better balance and I'm not sure where to start.

winter is dead.

We fell asleep to the sound of rain, pattering onto the sidewalk in the alleyway outside of our window.  It was what I consider a real, honest spring storm.  The clouds that enveloped our little valley made it clear that they had a lot to give.

Late this morning, the gentle rainfall started to let up.  Most of the people at work were relieved at the sight of sunlight, but I'm always hesitant to celebrate clear skies after a storm.  There is something appealing to me about dark clouds, the way colors are brought out and the air seems easier to breathe.

I find a strange comfort in rainy days.  I feel akin to steely gray skies.  The way they seem to reflect what is in my own mind.  Whether I'm unsettled or completely peaceful, the storm seems to empathize.

rich.

I realized I had been thinking too hard about it.  Not everything I said had to be profound or important or worth writing down, but then again it could be.  Any moment now, I could think up the most impressive thought anyone has ever heard.  Or it could just be more pointless crap as usual, but how do I know unless I give it a chance?  If I keep telling my brain, "No, that's not good enough," or "No, that's been said before," eventually it's is going to get fed up with me and stop throwing out ideas.  And if it stops giving me ideas how will I ever come up with better ones?

After I considered the fact that any thought of mine had the potential to be genius or at least move others in some way, I started writing almost all of them down.  At three a.m., in the bathtub, walking to the gas station for a Dew.  I just write it down.  No matter how brief or obscure the thought.  I give it a chance.  And I find I have a lot more creative ideas now.

enough

“How wrong to think I was anyone else, like thinking grass stains make you a beautiful view, like getting kissed makes you kissable, like feeling warm makes you coffee, like liking movies makes you a director. How utterly incorrect to think it any other way, a box of crap is treasures, a boy smiling means it, a gentle moment is a life improved.” -Daniel Handler

I've gotten to a strange point where I'm not sure what is enough.  My goals used to consist of staying good, going on a mission, getting married in the temple, going to school, writing something worth while and having babies.  Eventually.  Later.  A lot later.

Marriage sort of jumped out at me.  Seriously, I had other plans.  I was moving forward with my independent female life.  I was untamed and unwilling to be tamed.  I was off to some distant and as of yet unfamiliar land.  But then Drew came along, and without a single word of persuasion or criticism escaping from his perfectly kissable lips, he had me convinced.  I couldn't leave now.

I wasn't a fool; he was the definition of tall, dark and handsome.  He knew when to be serious and when to not.  He smiled when he saw me and listened when I spoke.  He knew the difference between "you're" and "your."  If I left, he wouldn't be available for long.  If I left, I would be gambling with the likelihood of being with the perfect man. And when it comes to matters of my heart, I have a strict no gambling policy.  Not that I gamble anyway.  I've never understood the appeal.  Casinos, gross. 

So, just like that, the goal of marriage was attained.  Completely out of nowhere and feeling surreal.  I had taken time off from college starting the year before in order to save money for my "mission."  The money I ended up actually saving was a pathetic and embarrassing amount.  That whole taking time off from college thing turned into never going back.  There was nothing specific I had been going for.  College is a lot of time and money for not having any reason to go.  Plus, Drew was in school and we needed a bread winner.  So bread win I do.  Even though I'm not sure why it's even referred to as "winner."  That's ridiculous.  Let's adjust that to bread earner, because, at least in my existence, money is earned with alarm clocks and 40 hours, not won.  Where I do nothing and then squeal and jump up and down?  Get real.

And, just like that, here I am.  I'm 22 years old.  I work full-time and have a family history calling I quite like and a primary calling that I complain to my husband about more than I should.  I don't know how I'll ever get good at making dinner.  I like sleeping in just as much as I did when I was ten, but nowadays I get out of bed when I'm supposed to.  The idea of motherhood scares me to death, but it's something I plan on jumping into eventually.  Again, later - a lot later.   I try to be good.  I don't watch R-rated movies and keep the curse words to a minimum.  I scrub my toilet on a regular basis and, with Drew's help, keep the dirty dishes from capsizing in the sink.

I'm a wife, an employee, a teacher, a daughter and a sister and an aunt.  I take pictures with my cheap camera and I write.  I've never run a marathon but I take the stairs every weekday.  I've got a heart thunking in my chest and do my best to put it to use.  I'm inherently reclusive but smile at people when they walk by - sometimes it's forced and sometimes it's not. 

I used to make a habit of looking up to heaven and asking them, "Am I enough?"  It took me a while to hear the answer, but now I understand that God made me, and therefore, I am enough.  God doesn't make an inadequate anything.  That's what humans are for.  

The question I send up to the clouds these days sounds quite similar, but means something very different to me.  Now that I know that I'm enough, now that I know I'm capable of anything that gets chucked in my direction, Is this enough?  Now that I can't deny that I heard the answer and have this knowledge in my head, now that I can't turn back without a compromised conscience, Is this enough?

Am I doing enough?  I don't know how to tell.

cheater.

"..The thing about your heart's desire is that your heart doesn't even know what it desires until it turns up."

"The matches were a little he loves me, he loves me not, but then I saw right on the box that I had twenty-four, which would end the game at not, so I just let the small handful sparkle and puff for a bit, each one a thrill, a tiny delicious jolt for each part I remembered, until I burned my finger and went back in still thinking of all we did together."

It's just so much easier on my brain to read books that were written after the 1800's.  For a long time, I've been stuck in this thought that if a book I'm reading isn't a classic, I'm cheating somehow.  Cheating on the Bronte sisters and Nathaniel Hawthorne.  Cheating on their poetic language and extensive vocabularies I could never hope to attain.  If I can fully comprehend a paragraph the first time I read through it, something is wrong. 

Though I still say classics are my favorite, I decided to let all of my favorite dead authors turn in their graves.  I decided to cheat.  I bought a book last night.  A book whose copyright is year 2011.  I shamelessly bought this brand new book to the world and I am in love.  The kind of in love where I stayed up well past my bed time reading it.  And even when I turned out the lights I couldn't get to sleep for at least a half hour because I was still thinking about it. 

Classics are still my favorite.  But this book (sorry, Steinbeck, sorry, Austen).  It has me.

stress eating.

You know that feeling you get after examining the countless aspects of your life and you realize that you need to improve
and be better
and work harder...at every single one of them?

But that's way too overwhelming of a project to even try to come up with a tackling plan for, so you just go get a 3 Musketeers bar and frantically pound it down, outer-chocolate-shell first?

Me neither.

Seriously though, I've always had this sneaking suspicion in my head that, somewhere between childhood and adolescence, something in me sort of disconnected.  Some vital plug lost touch with a crucial outlet, and here I am.  Dysfunctional and unable to complete tasks that the vast majority of people seem to be able to do in their sleep.  When all I want to do is sleep.  Sleep sleep.

Just, why does everything have to be a jigsaw puzzle?  Why can't I paint by numbers?

it's still winter.

The first picture was an accident.  Well, okay, I meant to take a picture, but was too lazy and cold to stop walking in order to focus it.  I remember seeing how blurry it was and thinking that it was worthless and I'd delete it later.  In a warmer, drier place.  But , as it turns out, it's probably one of my favorites as of late.  Blurry warmth.  Even though it's snowing. 

Did you know that the storm going on in Utah and the surrounding states right now is named Gandolf?  I hope that they didn't mean to name it after Gandalf, because misspelling the name of such a prominent figure in Middle Earth's history is just plain embarrassing. 

Or maybe it's more embarrassing that I even know that.  You're probably right.

Tomorrow's high is only going to get to 14 degrees.  Definitely will not be leaving the house.

this is temporary.

It is a rare occasion that I'm shiny, bright or bubbly.   My default face is far from a smile; on the contrary, it is often mistaken for anger or depression.  I get caught up in obscure ideas, and am often mentally absent, my thoughts having taken me somewhere else.  But, truly and honestly, I'm mostly always happy.  That is, happy in my own sense of the word.  In that deep-down-in-my-heart-and-bones kind of way.  

Those who know me, know this.  Those who don't, I assume, most likely perceive me as rather melancholy and opaque.  But whoever has the time to worry about others' perceptions is most likely procrastinating many more important tasks.

truths.

-I like good, clean fun.

-Which means I'm pretty boring, in general.  But I'm comfortable with this.

-I'm particular.

-I get stuck on certain things.  Books, movies, bands, food.  I'm not too keen on "trying new things" because the things I've already tried and liked are already fulfilling enough for me. I find solace in sameness and consistency.

-I'm a very odd mixture of introvert and extrovert.

-I am pro-facial hair (on men).

-I always felt too tall until Drew showed up.

-I'm laid back about most things, excluding morals.  At that point, I get pretty prudish.

-Most days, I feel about 80 years old.

-I like lamp lighting or natural lighting.

-I hate overhead lights.

-I never wear high heels.  They are fundamentally wrong.

-I love cardigans, and wear them daily.  My collection will probably never stop growing. 

-I wish it would rain at least twice a week.  The only time that something we need actually does fall from the sky.

-I don't typically speak unless spoken to.   Except in the cases that I know someone well and have confidence that they're going to think what I have to say is interesting/worth listening to.

-One of the biggest blows to my system is when someone I'm talking to doesn't seem to be listening.  Ego I guess.

-I'd rather look decent for not trying very hard than not very good for trying really hard.

- I have trouble finding the motivation to start something if I don't feel like I'll do my best.

- I only feel like wearing make up about once every ten days, on average.  And it's usually only mascara.  This could subconsciously be because on the days I actually do wear it, I get quite a few comments on "how nice I look today."  Which could be them hinting that I look like death without it and should put it on more often.  But I choose to remain ignorant.

-I used to think my favorite season was Summer.  That was never true.  Deep down, it has always been Fall.

-Ever since I was young, I have been a Night Owl.  Night time is my favorite time for thinking, organizing, going on adventures, reading, being creative, etc.

-Ever since I got a full time job, I can't be a Night Owl anymore. 

-But I have never been and will never be a morning person...

-So now I'm not an any time of day person, and am just always tired.

-Credibility is not easily restored with me.  Once someone is rude, I see them as rude.  Usually for the rest of their general existence.  I realize that this is not particularly merciful.  But...

-I think being nice matters more than a lot of other things.

-My face, just my normal facial expression, either looks sad or angry.  Or so I'm told on a regular basis.

-My idea of a perfect moment typically includes chocolate, Diet Mt Dew or Coca-cola, and some good literature.

-I love that Drew's beard sometimes smells like old books.

-I feel like my life is made up of waiting for the weekend to come.  

-I'm a lot more like my mom than I ever thought.  But it's fine because if I'm ever confused about how I feel, I just call her and she explains it to me.

-I'm not as depressing or depressed as I seem.

-I do not believe in coincidence.  There is no room for it in the world.

-I love looking up words.

-I hate olives, tomatoes and raw onions.